I want to freeze in terror, feeling the phantom pain of the gunshot in my shoulder, but my brain instantly shifts its attention to Owen. All I care about is getting him somewhere safe. I twist both of us and push him to the ground. When a second gunshot sounds, I fall on top of him.
I’m instantly up again, pulling him along with me. “Get to the trees,” I growl, shoving him ahead of me.
“I thought you said—” he begins, and I can hear the panic in his voice.
“That was before I knew they had guns,” I shout as we both sprint for the trees to the left of us.
Thank god Owen is fit and quick on his feet. He keeps pace with me as we crash into the underbrush and barrel through the forest, our steps loud over the dry leaves and fallen branches. Discretion is no longer needed—only survival.
Another gunshot sounds behind us and ricochets off a tree ahead. Owen halts, and I crash into his back. He stares at the bullet hole in the tree, almost as if he’s about to go into a state of shock.
“Look at me,” I demand, knowing we only have a few seconds at most.
He does. I ignore the terror on his face and the fact that my instructions and my calmness in this situation might get me found out. At the very least, they might cause some suspicion. I decide it’s worth it. I decidehe’sworth it.
“I will distract them, pull them in the opposite direction. You need to run for the car. I’ll be right behind you. Wait two minutes for me. No more. If I’m not there, go.”
“I can’t,” he stammers.
“You can and you will.” I push him away from me.
His face looks devastated, and I try my best to ignore it while turning away from him and sprinting in the opposite direction. I make as much noise as I can, drawing the gunman away from Owen. The plants grab at my clothes, tearing my skin under my leggings.
I may not have a gun, but I did strap a dagger to my thigh. I grab for it, not slowing. Counting the seconds, knowing I only have a minute before I need to head back toward the car, I use the numbers to steady myself.
The sound of another shot echoes behind me. It’s close. Whoever’s after Owen took the bait and followed me instead. I could sigh with relief if I didn’t have to run for my life.
Sweat pours down my chest. When I reach sixty seconds, I switch directions. I catch the movement of my pursuer as I do, and I clutch the dagger harder until steel cuts grooves into my skin.
Come on.
I urge them to make a mistake. To come out into the open for a split second so that I can bury a dagger in them.
A moment later, I spot their silhouette step out from behind a tree, and I whip my arm toward them, turning my body to get the most momentum and releasing the dagger.
I hear the gunshot at the exact moment the dagger leaves my hand. Falling to the ground, searing pain rips through the skin on my arm, but my dagger hits its target, and the person goes down with a grunt of pain.
I hit his leg.
Not waiting for him to pull the trigger again, I push up, my arm screaming in pain, and sprint as fast as my legs will carry me.
The branches grab at my hair and pull it from its ponytail. I ignore my arm. I ignore everything, focused only on my one objective: the seconds I have left to get back to the car in time.
When I break through the tree line and stumble on the pavement of the parking lot, I let out a strangled noise. The shadow of his form waits in the driver's seat.
He didn’t leave me.
When I get to the car, I yank open the door with my good arm and fall into the seat.
“Go!” I shout and slam the door shut. Owen doesn’t wait as he peels out of the parking lot, his foot already poised over the gas.
We both don’t say anything for a few moments, and I struggle to get my seatbelt fastened. He notices my arm and almost swerves off the road.
“Eyes on the road,” I growl, sitting up straighter so I can get a better look at my wound. The bullet only grazed the skin of my upper arm.
I reach down and grab the end of my T-shirt, tearing it. I wrap it around my arm and cinch it tight, wincing at the pain.
At least I won’t bleed all over his car.
